Everyday Yogi

by H. S. Shivaprakash

  One evening, it was here that I met Shivananda Swami, a yogi from the Arasu caste. It turned out that he lived in this little temple with another swami. They would spend the day begging from nearby houses and sleep beside the tomb at night. The same evening, Shivananda Swami sang the compositions of Nijaguna and Sarpabhushana Shivayogi, two great yogis of the Virashaiva tradition.

  Singing ‘Anubhavada adigeya madi’ (While cooking the meal of inner knowledge …), a well-known composition, he asked, ‘What does “adigeya” mean?’

  ‘To cook,’ I replied, and proceeded to lecture him on the use of quotidian metaphors in spiritual literature, wanting to impress him with my knowledge.

  He laughed. ‘This is all bookish knowledge; it can lead you to surface meanings. Hidden meanings, however, can only be learnt from a true guru.’

  He then started explaining to me the esoteric meaning of tatwapadas, spiritual songs. ‘What is tatwa? The usual meaning is philosophy. But in the guru tradition it means “tat twam asi” (You are That), while “pada” means attainment. Thus tatwapadas are not just songs about spiritual matters. They are expressions, in words, of the attainment of oneness with Paramashiva.

  ‘Now let me explain the inner meaning of the first line, “Anubhavada adigeya madi.” “Anu” means body. Don’t laugh. I know that this is not the dictionary meaning but we yogis have another dictionary. For us, “anu” means “tanu” or the body, that which is external. “Bhava” is that which is within, the atman. When we say “anubhava” we mean that the body comes first and the soul comes second. What Sarpabhushana Shivayogi is saying is that we should turn this upside down. That is the meaning of “adige”. For an ordinary person, the self is in the body, but for a yogi, the body is in the self. This is the secret of sadhana.’

  This was a revelation to me. I started meeting Shivananda Swami almost daily. One evening during our walk, I asked him if he had ever been to Siddhaganga Math, the most influential religious institution in the region.

  He shot back, ‘Why should I? I have nothing to do with such institutions.’

  ‘What is the difference between you and the math people?’ I asked.

  His reply was profound. ‘This world is like a huge forest containing trees of many kinds. Shivakumar Swami, the head of the Siddhaganga Math, is a large tree of one kind; he belongs to a specific caste. But people like us are like the whole forest, where every tree, every caste finds its place.’

  Soon after I met Shivananda Swami, I was transferred to Bangalore but continued to live in my rented house in Tumkur and commute to Bangalore daily for work. As soon I would get back from Bangalore in the evening, I would go off to meet Shivananda Swami. We used to have dosa and tea in nearby hotels. He did not follow any diet restrictions but ate all the food he was given, including meat. Whatever is offered to the guru becomes prasad, sacred food, he would say to me. So he also smoked and drank alcohol. In fact, he was a beedi addict. Each time I went to see him, I would take for him a bundle of beedis.

  One day, deeply anguished about my married life, I asked him for a solution. He said, ‘The final solution is peace. Be patient. But maybe she wants property? If you have some property, give it to her and wash your hands off the matter. No one will trouble you when you own no property.’

  His own life was an illustration of this point. He used to own a lot of agricultural land in the fertile area of Pandavapur. His wife and children nagged him constantly, fed up with his spiritual pursuits. They asked the same question again and again: ‘Why do you need family and property?’ Finally, the meaning of it all dawned upon him. He called them and said, ‘You people are right. I do not need any family or property. You keep it all.’ The very next day he transferred all his property to his wife. Soon afterwards, he was initiated by his guru and became a sanyasi.

  A man generous with his spiritual wisdom, Shivananda Swami taught me an esoteric kind of pranayama, even though it was a well-guarded secret in his tradition. He said, ‘This alone is enough for moksha; it will give you everything.’ However, I did not recognize the efficacy of his pranayama at the time; none of the learned gurus I knew of had ever mentioned it, nor was it written about in any book on the subject. So I practised other types of pranayama that I picked up from erudite sources, but none of them helped me beyond a point. Since pranayama required one to retain one’s breath for long periods of time, this was something a smoker like me could not achieve, and I stopped practising pranayama altogether.

  Only in later years did I recall that Shivananda Swami chain-smoked beedis. Since he was able to do the pranayama, I guessed I could also manage. I remembered the technique he had taught me, and decided to give it a try. The effect was instantaneous. I found it was deeply relaxing and most efficient in slowing down thoughts. Since then, I have been practising it regularly and experience its benefits every time I do it. As it focuses on exhalation rather than inhalation, it is a technique even smokers like me can manage easily.

  I continued to spend all my free time with Shivananda Swami. At one point, circumstances forced me to stay on in Bangalore for a couple of weeks. When I returned to Tumkur, Swami Shivananda had disappeared. I gathered that the other swami had become jealous of his increasing popularity with the local people, and had accused him of theft. I simply could not imagine him committing a crime. Maybe he left for some other place to avoid further conflict or perhaps his life had been in danger.

  THREE

  The Need for Atheism

  I had been deeply impressed by Shivananda Swami’s tranquility and acceptance of life. But his way of life also raised certain questions in my mind. What good is spirituality that turns its back on the world? Who benefits from such a sacrifice? What is the worth of all the truths realized by someone unless those truths change the world around us? I was looking for more tangible results of spirituality and did not realize at that time that the effect of spirituality is very subtle. My misgivings led me to the next phase of my exploration—the need for atheism. What Swami Bhajanananda had said to me years ago, had come to pass.

  Even atheism is a faith. It is not easy to be a true atheist; only the boldest can achieve it. It is as difficult as true theism. Basavanna said that much like a see-saw, devotion cuts while coming and going. The same is true of atheism. Choosing between atheism and theism is a choice between fire and fire.

  Most people swing between the schools of theism and atheism. I have seen with my own eyes how self-proclaimed atheists rush slyly to god-men, astrologers and black magic practitioners in times of distress. Even a slight headache can make a self-proclaimed theist curse God and pronounce him non-existent.

  Actually, most of us are confused about the relationship between religion, spirituality and faith. The fact remains that not all religions are based on faith in God. The Buddhist and Jain spiritual paths are, for instance, obviously atheistic.

  Ironically, the worst crimes in human history have been perpetrated by men of faith. These followers of theistic religions inevitably turn into fanatics, and force others to believe in what they have been indoctrinated into but have never experienced at first hand. Faith makes them blind and tyrannical, ready to harm themselves and others. Just like theists, even atheists can become intolerant fanatics. They believe in something a priori and consider the rest of us fools who think and feel differently.

  Faith can be an aid to focus the mind in yogic practices if used in a judicious way. Still, yoga is experience, not faith. It is the experience of unity and the interconnectedness of all life; it is also the basis of the highest human and spiritual values, as well as the fount of compassion. Yoga can benefit from a certain amount of faith but it can also dispense with it completely. Akka Mahadevi, the 12th century mystic and poet, describes the highest spiritual state. I translate her words here for you: It is the language of killing Channamallikarjuna, and dying.

  Finally, spiritual practice has nothing to do with both these isms. Whether one chooses the theistic or atheistic path, the objecti
ve of all sadhana is to balance the inner and the outer selves. Sadhana can save one from being blown away by the tempests of daily life. The purpose of sadhana is to attain joy and freedom, not to resolve philosophical conundrums. One takes to sadhana not to find support for beliefs but to see things for what they are.

  It is for this reason that my Sufi master, Ashad-ullah Quadri Wali, always said, ‘Mind is God.’ Till we find our still centre in the midst of transient experiences, we will be besieged by all kinds of fears and doubts, and will feel the need for external stability and support. I summarize here what Acharya Abhinavagupta wrote about the yogi. He said that a yogi is one who can find a balance between excessive faith and excessive scepticism.

  What triggered off my atheism were two experiences I had. While going for a morning walk along the road near the government college in Tumkur, I saw a street dog being hit by a truck. The truck’s wheel ran over the tummy of the poor dog. As blood streamed out of its mouth, it raised its head to see what had happened to its body, but the next moment, its head fell back and it died. The terrible end met by this poor animal, as dawn was painting the east pink, haunted me.

  Another evening, I stood smoking near a bakery when a young man came tottering up to me. Unable to speak, he indicated his hunger by pointing to his tummy. I bought him buns and he gobbled up about a dozen buns. Then he wanted more, so I got him tea and bananas. Mute with hunger at first, he was now mute with gratitude. This convinced me that only an act of human kindness could mitigate suffering, not appeals to God.

  This period in my life also corresponded with the tribulations in my personal life. Though married, I was living a lonely existence. Smoking and drinking were the only things that gave me solace. On one of those nights of loneliness and anguish, I woke up to go to the toilet but my knees had no strength and I collapsed on the ground. ‘God is dead,’ screamed an inner voice with great clarity. This statement grew louder and louder in my head till something gave way inside me.

  I found myself overwhelmed by mixed feelings. On the one hand, I felt a Faustian overconfidence at the sudden sense of freedom I tasted as I let go of the lifelong anchor I had held on to for so long, especially in moments of fear and weakness. Yet, this feeling of freedom also filled me with a primitive terror, and I felt like a child lost in a terrible jungle with no map or directions.

  I woke up the next morning with the shocking realization that I was an atheist. The wall of faith that had protected me till now had given way. The world began to glow with its own light; it did not need an external source of illumination any more. The green grass, birdsong, the glow of sunlight— each thing started looking splendid in its own light. I resolved firmly never to plead with the imaginary God, though I decided to continue my yogasanas purely for my physical health. The more I continued with my hatha yoga practice, the more I became indifferent to faith. This phase lasted for over three years.

  Having traversed the theistic and atheistic paths, I have come to realize that both these positions are equally right and equally wrong. Spiritual traditions like Sufism and esoteric Christianity, which is associated with theistic religions, often exhort us to go beyond faith. On the other hand, the spiritual traditions of atheistic religions end up creating a whole pantheon of deities as aids for mind training. I recall reading a translation of Allama Prabhu’s poetry. I present it here in my own words: Beyond both contaminations, He is Void, our Lord Gogeswara.

  After I outgrew atheism, it was not faith I returned to, but to my sadhana. Sadhana is what truly matters because it is this work that transforms you. Faith is merely a stepping stone that may or may not be able to help you along your path.

  FOUR

  Only Facts, No Fiction

  I was twenty-seven years old and had to come to terms with a godless world. I decided to master material knowledge, and believed that science was the gateway to such knowledge. The laws of science and mathematics, I thought, were the only certainties. Atomic physics, astronomy, anatomy and physiology interested me the most, and I started reading all the books on these subjects I could lay my hands on. This needed to be complimented by the human and social sciences, so I started gathering reading material on these subjects as well. I decided that poetry and art were figments of the imagination. I now wanted hard facts based on the realities of science, not fiction.

  From another viewpoint, this attitude could be constituted as a sort of escapism. I refused to confront my personal problems, which were staring me in the face. For instance, when I had a severe toothache, I chose to read books on the anatomy and physiology of teeth rather than go see a dentist.

  I became obsessed with physical exercise, albeit in a faddish way; in fact, I thought the mind needed exercise as well. Like the body, the mind gets lethargic unless properly exercised.

  Marxism now defined the limits of my world. I wanted to integrate all knowledge within the framework of dialectical materialism. I believed it was capable of filling up the void in my mind caused by the death of God, and provide me with a set of consistent concepts that could not only explain but transform the world. I concluded that all my problems stemmed from the sickness of capitalism. According to me, capitalism alienated us from our own essence, impacting social structures and making a mockery of our creative powers. To end capitalism was the panacea for all ills. I now became active in the Communist Party of India (Marxist).

  In the meantime, Mrs Indira Gandhi had contested the Chikmagalur Lok Sabha elections after her humiliating defeat in north India. At this time, I was suffering terribly from piles and losing nearly a cupful of blood every day. But that was less important than the piles that had afflicted our national life: the threat to democracy. I ignored my painful condition and left for active election campaigning with my CPM comrades, K.R. Naik, Hagalwadi Chennappa and Dastgir Sahib. We travelled in the interiors of Karnataka where there were simply no civic facilities. When I saw the destitution of the Dalits in the villages, I became very passionate about their emancipation. Radical politics had become my life’s breath.

  This was also the time when I started taking a deep interest in Buddhism and meditation. Buddhism emphasizes the need for mind training, which was in keeping with my interest in exercising the mind. At the same time, it did not conflict with my atheism. My hunt for a meditation master began, but it took me time to find the right person.

  It was in 1984 that I met and became very close to Acharya Buddharakkhita Thera, the head of the Mahabodhi Society in Bangalore. A great meditation master, he was well versed not only in Buddhist lore but also in various fields of knowledge such as science, history and philosophy.

  He would explain everything to me rationally. Under his supervision, I plunged into vipassana meditation. This type of meditation involves breath awareness, which can bring tranquility. Once I got some experience in this, I started focusing on other awareness-based practices related to feelings, sensations and thoughts.

  In Buddhist practice, you have to fix the mind on some part of the body–mind—the breath, a body part or a sensation—and go on observing it non-stop without yielding to fluctuations of the mind. Once this practice advances, many aspects of experience that appear continuous are experienced as discrete. This is because the apparent ‘flow’ of experience actually consists of separate moments.

  In effect, all experience is the expression of anatmavada, the non-soul theory. It just means that there is no continuity of self that holds experiences together. Buddhism does not believe in the existence of the soul. This viewpoint is the opposite of Vedanta, which holds that all else is false except the everlasting self. In Buddhism, all experience, whether pleasant or otherwise, is dukkha, suffering, as everything is impermanent. It is the belief that once you experience samsara as a set of discrete and impermanent moments, you will begin to get a glimpse of what is beyond—a state called nibbana, nirvana, an ineffable state marked by absence of dukkha.

  However, this is not the way I experienced discreteness. I had intense experi
ences during the practice of sound awareness. I would choose the most crowded places to practise this meditation—a bus stand or a railway platform, for instance. After the initial moments of awareness, the discrete sounds in the environment would cease and feel like the manifestation of some arch-sound instead. I could experience the void between sounds, which would deepen with heightened concentration. However, I realized that sounds do not quite cease; like waves, they disappear here and reappear somewhere else. As with the principle of rhythm in polyrhythmic music, an abstract unity manifests itself as the bond between discrete moments, and this experience is full of bliss.

  I shared my feelings with Acharya Buddharakkhita Thera. I told him that the experience of momentariness, instead of giving me the experience of sorrow, was giving me a feeling of great bliss. He was irritated. He said, ‘This is your ignorance. This is tanha, greed. Every time this happens, go on telling yourself that this is dukkha.’

  K.M. Shankarappa was an acquaintance of mine. A trained film-maker, he had recently converted to Buddhism. He had come to the conclusion that life was meaningless. Whenever somebody undertook a new venture, he would grumble and say that everything was dukkha; this had become his refrain.

  One day, he offered to take me to a relative of his who was into vipassana meditation. I do not remember this person’s name. Though he had not become a monk, he was living like one. Having spent many years in Japan as a prosperous engineer, he now owned a small workshop in a quiet street in Ulsoor, and lived a solitary life as a bachelor. The more he matured in vipassana, the less interest he had in worldly affairs. He had realized the vacuity of pastimes like art, music and literature. It was as if he had concluded that nothing is worth having because everything passes.